


Unspeakable Truths

by exastris



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Angst, Drunk Driving, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 07:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6648826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exastris/pseuds/exastris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jesse doesn't know if this is what he wants, but it certainly feels wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspeakable Truths

**Author's Note:**

> The nature of consent in this fic is intentionally ambiguous, but I'm flagging it as Non-Con just to be extra cautious.

_Jesse, it's me. Pick up._

_Jesse. Can we talk? Give me a call when you get this._

_Jesse, I need you to come over. Please._

He remembers a certain distant afternoon, a memory he finds himself returning to these days with increasing persistence, a moment that haunts like a crime scene, with all its poetic mysteries and taunting possibilities of things that could have gone otherwise--hopefully with less violence this time, hopefully never having happened at all, instead of now spinning out of control like a bad lie that threatens to take everything down with it.

The pile of metal folds in on itself with an onerous groan. Tiny specks of golden light shudder with it atop mountains of waste. He closes his eyes to the blinking answering machine, and briefly thinks of the old RV, sitting gloomily under the desert sun and everyone's expectation of its eventual destruction, and making quite a noise as it went. It was quite a sight.

_I need you to come over._

The "please" sounds like an afterthought to make it more like a plead and less like an order, but they both know that that's not working. No amount of polite words is going to make what comes after any less like an act of disobedience, not for as long as he's not allowed to call him anything other than "Mr. White".

Because Mr. White gives orders and is never wrong. Mr. White has a plan and looks out for the both of them. Mr. White knows what's best for Jesse, especially for Jesse, who has the emotional and intellectual capability of a 17-year-old and is no stranger to poor judgements and the disasters that follow.

Mr. White gives him a look, and expects to be understood, and always gets what he wants.

And Walt, when the name slips through a mnemonic crack on a good night, is the alcohol on his breath and mind, and in close proximity steals from him both. Walt is the late night phone calls that need him to come over, a series of subtle requests that started one distant afternoon, strange how he remembers things now in relation to one distant afternoon. Walt is a pile of clothes and used tissues on the floor, a pile of limbs and pale skin on the bed, and the scrambling, breathless distance inbetween.

Walt is the freckles that punctuate every day that he's been older and bitter for it, the wrinkles that string them together, and the eyes that say a thousand words without one apology, one confession, or anything of the touchy feely sort, because they don't do touchy feely, and they most certainly don't cuddle after a drunk fuck.

Well, cuddling is for couples. It's for emotionally mature adults with mutual respect and fascination. It's for people in love. And this thing that they have, whatever this is, however frequent, however sparse, however volatile and fragile, certainly needs no cuddling in its tangle of rust.

And this thing, whatever this is, deserves to die a thousand deaths of shame.

He gets up from the floor and gets into the shower. He is going to turn up the temprature and scrub himself raw. He is going to shave, because it is preferred that maybe he shaves, if he would also like that, please. Later, he will have a beer or two, or maybe more, and once he is sufficiently intoxicated, he will get into his car.

_God, Jesse, I hope you didn't drive like this._

_I hate to see you like this, Jesse._

_If you don't like what we are doing here, Jesse, we can just go back to the way things were before, you know._

_No strings attached. Do you understand? It's all fine._

But that won't stop Walt from grabbing him by the hips, once the clothes are removed, and pushing him up kitchen counters bedroom walls bedposts, and panting and cursing and coming behind him with hands in his hair. And later, after the clumpsy attempts at cleaning himself up in a bathroom too small for two grown men, after a solemn display of silhouetted bodies and rising steam and the "are-you-sure-you-don't-want-to-stay" from behind the shower curtain, after the closing of the bedroom door front door car door, after the driving in the dark through empty streets and then the opening of those doors in reverse order, there will be time, before passing into oblivion in his own bed, to think about just minutes ago the teeth and claws at the neck and hip bones when he's being pounded into incoherence, to think about the praises and curses and the shuddering intakes of breath, to think about the bristles brushing against his skin dry and brittle and ready to break, to think about what the fuck he thinks he's actually doing, giving in to this cold war that Mr. White is waging--an unmistakable retaliation for his daring to break free, no doubt, and his secretly enjoying being the receiving end of it, and how much he hates this realization, hates Mr. White and himself and everything else caught inbetween, for getting sucked into this fucked-up mess with no end in sight, and how much he wants to just crush this "empire" into a crumple of waste indistinguishable from another in this junkyard of an existence, so he doesn't have to live with a monster breathing down his neck, burning holes into the back of his head, walking up and down his life and leaving dead body after dead body in its wake.

And maybe, just maybe, there will be time tonight for trying to convince himself of something he already believes, something that explodes out of all the other unspeakable truths, something like

_What the hell do you mean by that? Of course I do. Fuck, you think I'd be here if I don't like this?_

_No one can force me to do anything, alright? No one!_

_Not even you. Bitch._


End file.
